


The Tie

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco isn’t one to lavish Theodore with posh things without an occasion or a reason.  Luxuriant gifts from him carry a proviso, and this one is no different.</p><p>In which Theodore is a pussy and Draco is a cock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tie

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Thursdays.
> 
> For ColorfulStabwound and for Draco.
> 
> Special thanks to Draco_Amante for Kitten!Theo.

Inside a slender box is a black, seven-fold, satin tie, made of 100% silk.  The label on the back proclaims that it was procured from a high-end menswear shop – Paul Smith. Draco isn’t one to lavish Theodore with posh things without an occasion or a reason.  Luxuriant gifts from him carry a proviso, and this one is no different.

 

Accompanying the box is a cream colored card embossed with Draco’s initials.  Written in black, elegant cursive are these words:

 

_An association is a tie between memories, ideas, sensations, and objects. Let this tie be your association._

 

Theodore smiles, wistfully fingering the fabric in a gentle caress, musing about the cleverness of Draco’s play on words, but also contemplating the exact meaning.  The only other instructions are for Theodore to wear the tie tonight when Draco visits.  He understands that he is to wear nothing but the tie.  After all, it’s Thursday.

 

Theodore carefully ties a perfect half-Windsor, even going so far as to ensure there is a dimple below the knot, just as Draco had taught him.  The fabric feels cool, smooth, and luxurious against his bare skin.  He grins and admires his reflection in the mirror, quite pleased with himself for earning such an expensive present from Draco. 

 

Later that evening, Draco doesn’t touch Theodore – not to greet him, not to punish him, not to bind him with silk, not even to derive pleasure from the use of his body.  Draco simply sits on the chaise longue while Theodore kneels on the floor before him, as per their Thursday night ritual.  Draco watches with keen amusement while Theodore pleasures himself, as commanded, until he comes.

 

After Theodore has expended his seed, Draco lights a cigarette acquired from Theodore’s silver case.  Instead of offering it to Theodore, he holds it elegantly between two slender fingers and takes a deep drag.  Weak-kneed from his recent exertion, Theodore watches longingly as the smoke wafts from Draco’s parted lips.

 

“I have allowed you to come, Theodore, but this privilege is part of a bigger plan,” Draco explains loftilly, perching his elbow on the arm of the longue.  “From now on, you are only to come whilst wearing this necktie.”

 

Theodore blinks several times, wondering if they’re still roleplaying.  Draco’s command over Theodore has never extended beyond the one day of the week when Draco becomes _Master_ , and Theodore becomes his _kitten_.

 

He asks for clarification.  “Do you mean from now until the end of the night? Or truly from now on?”

 

“From now on,” Draco reiterates with a wide, self-assured smile.  “You may wear it however you please. Whenever you find the urge to pleasure yourself, you may only do so to completion if you are wearing the tie.  Should you desire release while you are with me, it may only be granted if you are wearing the tie.”

 

Theodore laughs softly, letting go of his assumed submissive role for just a moment.  “That’s seriously fucked up, Draco.”  He climbs onto Draco’s lap, curls his arms around him, and nuzzles his cheek like an affectionate feline.  “I love the idea,” he purrs, “Let’s do it.”

 

Draco grins, quite pleased with himself. “You’ve been badgering me to give you a stupid collar.  This is the closest you’re going to get.”

 

The necktie symbolizes Draco’s ownership of Theodore and his control over him.  But Theodore wonders what sort of response Draco is looking for.  Does he simply want Theodore to associate the tie with him? Just as the scent of Draco’s cologne lingering on Theodore’s bedclothes and the sound of Draco’s voice through the fire make Theodore hard in the absence of Draco’s touch, will the tie conjure memories of him?  It must be more complicated than that.  Theodore will just have to see how Draco’s plan unfolds.

 

The following night, Draco fire-calls. Theodore is already in bed, writing in his journal, when Draco’s face appears in the flames of the bedroom hearth.

 

Draco doesn't say any of the trivial things people say when greeting one another through the fire.  There is no volley of _how-do-you-do_ ’s and _what-are-you-up-to’s_. He simply drawls smoothly, "I'm thinking about you in that tie."

 

"Yeah?" Theodore asks flirtatiously. He slips into his submissive role as easily as putting on a shirt.  "Does it please you, Sir?"

 

"It does please me," Draco says, enunciating fluidly, making Theodore shiver, "I want you to touch yourself. Come for me.  You have my permission."

 

Then he disappears from the blue-green flames, leaving Theodore with a semi under the sheets.  He screws his eyes shut with frustration and swears under his breath.  If he didn't enjoy being such a submissive slut, he'd be embarrassed about how Draco could get him so bloody worked up with such little effort.  In his lap, in place of his journal, stands an erection that needs to be taken care of immediately.

 

He’s so eager to get off that he almost forgets to put on the tie.  He hastily snatches it from the tie rack in his closet and drapes it over the back of his neck just in time for him to shoot his load.  When he does, it splatters onto the tie.  He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.  He looks languid and content, with color in his cheeks, a lazy smile quirking his lips, and his spent cock softening in his hand.  His translucent, milky seed is quite conspicuous against the shiny black backdrop of the tie. 

 

He pens a short message and sends it off with Helvetica:

 

 

_Draco,_

_I came so hard for you that it will necessitate me bringing the tie to the cleaners tomorrow. You know my cleaning spells are crap, and I don’t trust myself not to ruin it further._

_Your happy little slut,_

_Theodore_

It is particularly embarrassing to have to point out the come-stains to the sweet muggle lady at the dry cleaners, but Theodore knows his humiliation would only amuse Draco and it’s enough to make him slightly stiff in his shorts.

It takes three days for the tie to come back from the cleaners, and in those three days without the tie, Theodore hadn’t been able to keep his hands off his cock, simply because he knew he shouldn’t be working himself up.  But he’d had enough restraint to bring himself to the edge and to stop himself every time.

 

Like any young man, getting off is often on his mind. But being cognizant of the fact that he’s not allowed to come, had put sex at the forefront of his thoughts today. He’s fidgety while he tries to work, uselessly trying to finish writing the next chapter of his novel. He can’t stop thinking about retrieving the tie from the cleaners.

 

At long last, he picks up the tie on his way home from a meeting with his editor.  As he reaches for the rack to hang up the tie in his closet, he hesitates. He could probably owl Draco to ask him over to his flat, but he honestly doesn’t want to wait.  So he hastily yanks off his tee shirt, opens his jeans, and puts on the tie. 

 

This time, he knots it properly and imagines that it is Draco’s fingers sliding around his throat, Draco’s arms moving sinuously across, up, and over, his body, just like the silk gliding into neat loops. He closes his eyes and relishes the sensation of smooth, cool fabric around his neck.  He’s so keyed up that the hand-sewed point tickles his hyper-sensitive skin when it brushes his navel.  When the sweet relief of release is achieved, he tries to aim away from the tie, but he still manages to get some of his spunk on there despite his efforts.

 

 

Another Thursday rolls around, and Draco invites Theodore over for a bit of fun.  Unfortunately, the soiled tie is at the cleaners again. Theodore shows up without the tie, and is slightly disturbed by how convincingly Draco voices his displeasure. He wonders where the assumed persona of _Master_ ends and Draco begins.

 

“I likely won’t punish you for not having your tie, Theodore,” Draco says, haughtily affronted, “I know that not being permitted to come is punishment enough.”

 

Theodore affects a coy pout, gazing up at Draco from beneath a fan of dark lashes like a shamed puppy. “I was rather hoping you’d spank me, Daddy.”

 

“Be careful what you wish for,” says Draco, smirking darkly.

 

A particularly violent session ensues, during which Theodore leaks profusely like a dripping faucet.  But not once, does Draco touch him to offer any sort of release. Not once, does Theodore beg for it.

 

There’s something wonderfully cathartic about self-denial, about enduring one’s self-imposed restraint, and Merlin knows how much Theodore loves his restraints on Thursdays.

 

Theodore is beyond frustration. Over the years, he’s become well acquainted with unfulfilled yearning, such that he knows it as well as he knows Draco.  This experience tonight concentrates all those years of longing into thick, dark, desire - The sort of unrequited desire that could drive one mad.  And as Theodore collapses onto Draco’s bed in a sweaty, exhausted, thoroughly fucked heap, he enters a dream-like state in which he’s nearly blinded by want.

 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep until he wakes up at dawn to a mélange of aches and pains.  His wrists are rubbed raw from the tight ropes that had bound him. His backside is an angry shade of red and it stings where the sheets slide over the battered skin.  His muscles are sore in a myriad of delicious ways. His thighs are bruised where Draco’s fingers pushed back his legs and held him possessively. 

 

Any normal human being would find it unpleasant to wake up feeling this way.  But Theodore is not a normal human being.  A smile spreads across his lips while he savors the ache with eyes blissfully closed, knowing that this is the lingering manifestation of Draco’s love. He curls up contentedly behind Draco’s sleeping form and nuzzles him awake.

 

Draco incoherently grumbles, to which Theodore responds with kisses plied to the back of his shoulder.  Because he never got to come last night, Theodore is instantly hard from mere contact with Draco’s warm skin. 

 

Draco seems to melt into Theodore’s body, moving closer without any effort.  A bit more coherently, Draco mumbles, “Do you want to come, kitten?”

 

Theodore whispers hotly behind Draco’s ear as he firmly grips his hip, preparing to take back his sexual role, “So fucking badly.”

 

Draco rolls over within Theodore’s arms and fixes him with a sleepy, albeit smug, grin.  “You can fuck me, but you’re not coming without your special tie.”

 

Theodore bites his own bottom lip hard and presses his forehead to Draco’s.  “I hate you so much,” he whispers sibilantly.

 

“You fucking love me,” Draco whispers back, his breath hot against Theodore’s mouth, “Why else would you sacrifice your pleasure for my amusement?”

 

The thought of suffering for Draco’s pleasure is enough to make the ache of desire hurt more than his abused flesh. His pain validates his love. It has always been this way.

 

 

~//~

 

 

Theodore gets into the habit of wearing the tie every time he wants release.  He drapes it over the back of his neck when he’s alone, wanking in his bed. He wears it loosely around his throat when he and Draco make love on any given day.  But on Thursdays, Draco makes sure to knot the tie tightly. It becomes such an inherent part of sex that Theodore doesn’t even have to think about putting on the tie – it’s automatic, as routine as getting out the lube.  He’s not even sure why he’s bothering to do it any more, other than to find out what Draco’s intentions are.  As expected, Draco responds with _you’ll see_ whenever he’s pressed for an explanation.

 

After five months, Theodore wonders if the tie has lost its meaning and significance.  Somehow, Draco senses this.  And he takes away the tie.

 

Theodore shrugs it off.  It’s just a piece of cloth. 

 

At least, Theodore wants to believe it doesn’t matter. But he finds himself in an unexpected predicament.  It becomes painfully apparent that, no matter what he does or Draco does, Theodore literally can’t come without the tie.  He gets close. He gets oh so fucking close and tense and he feels that build-up of pressure in his body.  But he is physically unable to achieve orgasm.

 

He’s never had this problem before. His embarrassment just fuels Draco’s amusement.

 

“What sort of fucked up dark magic is this?” Theodore whines with frustration.

 

Draco gently rocks his hips against Theodore’s, slowing the pace of his thrusts to a softly undulating rhythm. “It’s not magic. It’s a Pavlovian response.”

 

Theodore gasps indignantly, “Do you mean to say that you are literally training me like a bloody pet?”

 

Draco attempts to calm Theodore with his tempered voice and tenderly plied kisses.  “You’ve been on board with this little experiment for weeks.  Don’t give up now and ruin all my hard work.”

 

“ _Your_ hard work?” Theodore scoffs.

 

“Pipe down, Theodore.  I’m close,” Draco reprimands without having to raise his voice, before resuming a more purposeful rhythm.

 

 

Theodore is shocked that his body could betray him so utterly – how his release becomes entirely dependent on the tie – how Draco could control Theodore surreptitiously without needing to tie him up or apply a heavy hand.  When the initial wave of distress subsides, Theodore can’t help but admire Draco for his genius.

 

 

While the tie is no longer in Theodore’s possession, he finds that he isn’t as preoccupied with sex as he once was. It is just as well. He has a deadline coming up and his editor will have his heavy balls on a platter if Theodore doesn’t finish this next chapter.  If anything, he’s grateful to Draco for inadvertently clearing his head.

 

The following Thursday, Draco sends his owl to Theodore’s flat with a note on his usual embossed stationery. In his neat, black script, he instructs Theodore to present himself face-down on the bed in anticipation of Draco’s arrival.

 

A minute prior to their scheduled rendezvous at Theodore’s flat, he assumes the position, splayed out on the white duvet with his legs set apart.  Draco comes through the floo, saunters up from behind unseen, and nuzzles the back of Theodore’s neck with his nose.  From the feel of Draco’s breath on his skin, he can tell that Draco’s taking in his scent, surveying his body slowly. 

 

“I love the way you smell,” he drawls behind Theodore’s ear, kissing his neck wetly, “You smell of sweat and anticipation and longing.” Theodore can hear the smug amusement in Draco’s voice as he declares more than asks, “You want to come – don’t you, kitten?”

 

Every word fills Theodore’s chest with a fluttering feeling, making his breath hitch, making his pulse speed. Each word carries weight and sits heavily in his stomach, making it ache, making him hope, making him hate and lust.  And this is Draco’s power over him – he makes Theodore feel like he’s cherished, like he holds residence in Draco’s heart, while concurrently making him feel like he’s completely under Draco’s control – like he’s under the _Imperius_ curse.  And Theodore is only mildly surprised how much he fucking loves it.

 

Because he’s naked, Theodore can feel everything on his warm, hypersensitive skin.  He can tell what Draco is wearing just from the rustling sounds of fabric moving and from the way it brushes against him.  He can’t confirm it visually, for he’s still lying on his front. But he knows Draco is wearing cotton trousers and a crisp button-down shirt.  There is something silky and cold resting on Theodore’s back – it’s Draco’s necktie.  No, it’s _the_ necktie. Theodore knows that sensation all too well – the serpentine slide of it.  Feeling it sweep down his spine sends a wave of pleasure all along his body, straight down to his cock.

 

And just when his arousal awkens after lying dormant for so long, Draco pulls away, taking his enticingly hot breath and _Theodore’s_ tie with him.

 

“You know, your tie looks better on me. I might keep it,” Draco drawls flippantly.

 

Just as swiftly as his desire had risen, so does it now fall limply between his legs, having been defeated with the simple act of removing his hope.  He whimpers quietly.

 

Draco chuckles cruelly with closed lips and undoubtedly an amused smirk, judging from the timbre of his voice. “What’s the matter, kitten? I thought you didn’t need your tie.”

 

Just when Theodore is about to protest at Draco’s cruelty, Draco turns him over.  Theodore’s heart stutters when he sees Draco holding the tie like a taut length of rope meant to bind.  He knows what comes next. He finds the cold silk of the tie winding around his throat like fluid metal - it elicits a rush of adrenaline flooding through his veins.  He can taste excitement on his tongue and feel himself getting painfully hard.

 

As Draco’s lithe fingers slowly work with the silk, carefully twisting and folding and looping it into a precise half-Windsor knot, Theodore tenses with quickly mounting desire.  The smooth slide of the silk lapping at his collar is the physical equivalent of a wet tongue on his cock.   Before he can beg Draco to fuck him, he finds himself coming, untouched, from the mere sensation of his necktie upon his flushed skin.

 

He can hardly believe it’s happening, even while he’s watching himself spurt hotly onto his chest and inadvertently onto Draco’s shirt.  He pants and gasps with both alarm and intense pleasure.  And when all is said and done, Theodore can’t help but laugh breathlessly.

 

“Bloody hell.  Did you know that would happen?” Theodore asks.

 

Draco shrugs nonchalantly, surprisingly complacent with the mess that Theodore has made of his expensive shirt. “I had a theory.”

 

“Enlighten me,” says Theodore, still in shock from his unexpected release.

 

Draco carefully unbuttons his befouled shirt as he sits at the edge of the bed and explains.  “Like a bell to Pavlov’s dog, I believed that the tie would become a cue that triggers an action.  Establishing a cue requires training and repetition until one’s body associates an action with the cue.  For a well-trained dog, the association between the cue and the response is so ingrained that the response is automatic.  Pavlov’s dog salivated when it heard the bell because it had learned to associate feeding time with the sound.”

 

Still winded, Theodore chuckles incredulously, draping his arm over his forehead, “I can’t believe you trained me as if I were your bloody dog.  Next time, get a poodle, yeah? You can perform your behavioral experiments on it, rather than your fucking boyfriend.”

 

Draco, now shirtless, drapes himself on the bed along Theodore’s side and says, “But you’re more than, as you so eloquently put it, my _fucking boyfriend_.” He teases his lips against Theodore’s cheek and whispers, “Isn’t that right, kitten?”

 

Theodore grins wryly as he melts beneath Draco’s kisses.  He’s filled with the warmth of being loved – of being owned.  He will let Draco get away with this sick experiment because he knows that Draco belongs to him as much as he belongs to Draco.

 

He affectionately holds Draco’s face between his hands, seizes him with a penetrating, cerulean gaze, and says, “Absolutely right, Daddy.”

 

And besides… Theodore is somewhat adept at hypnosis and wouldn’t be a Slytherin if he were not vengeful.

 

~//~

 

_Three weeks later…_

 

Theodore finds Draco one morning, standing at the kitchen island, meticulously preparing a cappuccino.  He watches silently, admiring his lover uninhibitedly while Draco is none the wiser with his back turned.  Instead of greeting him with a sleepy _good morning,_ or even a lovingly sarcastic comment, Theodore counts backwards.  _Five, four, three, two, one._ He snaps his fingers.

 

“You’re a rooster,” Theodore declares.

 

The coffee is quickly forgotten in favor of strutting about the kitchen.

 

Revenge is sweet.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
